grown stronger over the years, tying him to her in ways he didn’t always understand, but always accepted. She was his, and there was no love without taking the responsibility that went with it.
He sure as hell could do without the guilt, though. It ate at him. He should have taken better care of her that night. He should have taken more care with her.
She started to say something, but then stopped when his phone rang.
Leaning over the side of the bed, he rummaged through his clothes until he found his cell. One look at the signal on the screen told him everything he needed to know. He immediately got up and started getting dressed.
“Who is it?”
“SDF, a call in.” There wasn’t a person on the other end of the line. Only the signal had been sent, but it was enough. Something was up, and Travis needed to be front and center at 738 Steele Street ASAP.
“My phone isn’t ringing,” she said, looking toward her fanny pack.
“Good. You need the rest.” He shrugged into his shoulder holster and reached for his shoes. “If I can come back, I will. Otherwise, you know the drill.”
“I’ll be here.”
“Good,” he said, crossing the room and leaning down to give her a kiss. “I’m glad you’re home, babe. I’ll be back.”
It wasn’t until he was halfway down the outside stairs, heading for the street, that it occurred to him that with all the sex, and then more sex, he’d forgotten something very important.
He’d forgotten to ask her about El Salvador.
CHAPTER
12
H IS WIFE had the most amazing ass in the world, Dylan Hart thought, tilting his head to one side to better see through his office door, watching Skeeter bend over the computer desk in the main office on the seventh floor of Steele Street.
She did it on purpose, just for him, wearing pink fishnet hose, a little white lace miniskirt, and a pink-and-white striped bustier.
He knew it.
She knew it.
And Superman knew it.
“Cut the crap, Dylan.”
“Tell her to cut it out,” he said, grinning. Her hair was all piled up on top of her head in a messy ponytail twisted around and held in place with a pair of bright red chopsticks to match the skinny red patent leather belt around her waist and the red patent leather four-inch spike heels on her feet, her “catch me/fuck me” shoes.
He’d caught her a couple of times in those shoes.
He’d caught her a couple of times in nothing but those shoes.
The memory flashed, a few brain cells caught on fire and went up in smoke, and suddenly, this very important meeting he was having with Hawkins needed to come to an end.
Schooling his features, he checked his watch.
“Aren’t Kat and the kids due back in a couple of minutes?” Superman was up to a brood of two, Alexandria and John Thomas Hawkins, with another one on the way.
“You’re becoming dangerously transparent, Dylan.”
And hot, he thought, his gaze straying back out the door.
Skeeter was being bad.
She bent deeper over the desk, widening her stance, and his imagination went into overdrive, filling in a lot of—
“Dylan?”
Details. Hot, erotic details.
“Dylan?”
Two weeks, that’s how long he’d been gone. Two long, dreary weeks in London, researching a name General Grant had given him: Sir Arthur Kendryk, Lord Weymouth. It hadn’t taken two weeks for Dylan to surmise that Grant was justified in being concerned about the man. Kendryk had insulated himself from the criminal elements of his organization with thousands of yards of red tape and innumerable layers of legitimate business dealings, but the ties were there. Dylan’s job was going to be sorting through it all and stealing what he needed in order for Grant to be able to take his suspicions to the undersecretary of defense at the Defense Department. International arms dealing, influence peddling, and drug trafficking on the scale Kendryk seemed to be involved with posed a credible security threat to the United States.
Which meant, of course, that
He sure as hell could do without the guilt, though. It ate at him. He should have taken better care of her that night. He should have taken more care with her.
She started to say something, but then stopped when his phone rang.
Leaning over the side of the bed, he rummaged through his clothes until he found his cell. One look at the signal on the screen told him everything he needed to know. He immediately got up and started getting dressed.
“Who is it?”
“SDF, a call in.” There wasn’t a person on the other end of the line. Only the signal had been sent, but it was enough. Something was up, and Travis needed to be front and center at 738 Steele Street ASAP.
“My phone isn’t ringing,” she said, looking toward her fanny pack.
“Good. You need the rest.” He shrugged into his shoulder holster and reached for his shoes. “If I can come back, I will. Otherwise, you know the drill.”
“I’ll be here.”
“Good,” he said, crossing the room and leaning down to give her a kiss. “I’m glad you’re home, babe. I’ll be back.”
It wasn’t until he was halfway down the outside stairs, heading for the street, that it occurred to him that with all the sex, and then more sex, he’d forgotten something very important.
He’d forgotten to ask her about El Salvador.
CHAPTER
12
H IS WIFE had the most amazing ass in the world, Dylan Hart thought, tilting his head to one side to better see through his office door, watching Skeeter bend over the computer desk in the main office on the seventh floor of Steele Street.
She did it on purpose, just for him, wearing pink fishnet hose, a little white lace miniskirt, and a pink-and-white striped bustier.
He knew it.
She knew it.
And Superman knew it.
“Cut the crap, Dylan.”
“Tell her to cut it out,” he said, grinning. Her hair was all piled up on top of her head in a messy ponytail twisted around and held in place with a pair of bright red chopsticks to match the skinny red patent leather belt around her waist and the red patent leather four-inch spike heels on her feet, her “catch me/fuck me” shoes.
He’d caught her a couple of times in those shoes.
He’d caught her a couple of times in nothing but those shoes.
The memory flashed, a few brain cells caught on fire and went up in smoke, and suddenly, this very important meeting he was having with Hawkins needed to come to an end.
Schooling his features, he checked his watch.
“Aren’t Kat and the kids due back in a couple of minutes?” Superman was up to a brood of two, Alexandria and John Thomas Hawkins, with another one on the way.
“You’re becoming dangerously transparent, Dylan.”
And hot, he thought, his gaze straying back out the door.
Skeeter was being bad.
She bent deeper over the desk, widening her stance, and his imagination went into overdrive, filling in a lot of—
“Dylan?”
Details. Hot, erotic details.
“Dylan?”
Two weeks, that’s how long he’d been gone. Two long, dreary weeks in London, researching a name General Grant had given him: Sir Arthur Kendryk, Lord Weymouth. It hadn’t taken two weeks for Dylan to surmise that Grant was justified in being concerned about the man. Kendryk had insulated himself from the criminal elements of his organization with thousands of yards of red tape and innumerable layers of legitimate business dealings, but the ties were there. Dylan’s job was going to be sorting through it all and stealing what he needed in order for Grant to be able to take his suspicions to the undersecretary of defense at the Defense Department. International arms dealing, influence peddling, and drug trafficking on the scale Kendryk seemed to be involved with posed a credible security threat to the United States.
Which meant, of course, that
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